


Cor Cordium

by ibby (ibbywrites)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Cheating, Forced Proximity, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, no elizabeth bashing but she definitely gets the short end of the stick, tags to be added as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 05:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17636957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibbywrites/pseuds/ibby
Summary: Armie flies from LA to Milan one spring day in 2016.What he finds there will leave him changed forever.





	Cor Cordium

**Author's Note:**

> So. I started this a year ago. I'm mad at myself for writing RPF cause it's generally not my thing and it's ~problematique etc.... but these two are so damn compelling. I'm not sure where this is going. I have some vague ideas about things I would like to include, but this is not going to be some plot-driven drama. 
> 
> The form of this will probably shift. Some chapters will be long, some will be short. POV may change, I haven't decided. 
> 
> Also- I'm casually looking for an Italian-picker (my Italian is only a beginner level) and a good beta. If you feel like you can contribute something to/better this story than what's currently happening, I'd like to hear from you. Please drop me a message either here or on tumblr (links in the footnotes). I need someone who is going to want to help me with ideas and inspiration. This goes in general as well- I am not involved in the charmie fandom as I find it gets fucking weird way too fast, but therefor I may be missing a lot of info. I love taking snippets from reality and working them into stories so if you even just want to chat and help me get inspired, it will help me churn out work a LOT faster.
> 
> Lastly- primarily my motivation was to give Tim and Armie the same treatment the film/book gave Elio and Oliver. I just wanted to take beautiful tone of the book and film and translate it to a real life scenario. So the goal here is for it to be very descriptive and evocative. I hope I achieve somewhere even vaguely approaching that.

Armie flies from LA to Milan one spring day in 2016.

 

It is very late (or very early) when his plane touches down. He is collected by a small Italian man, a handler who introduces himself as _Massimo_ and exclaims in heavily accented English over Armie’s height before leading him out to a tiny, teal 1990 Renault Clio. He tosses Armie’s suitcases in the trunk and is singularly amused by Armie’s attempt at folding his limbs into the vehicle. He ends up with his knees in his armpits and his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle so that the crown only just brushes the roof, but Massimo is kind enough through his snickering to warn him about potholes as they head east out of Milan.

By the time they cross the _fume d’Adda_ , the sun has just begun to cusp on the soft swell of the horizon, glinting brilliantly on the gently rippled expanse of the river. Upon reaching the outskirts of Crema, the early morning rays are burnishing the fields and pastures of the dairy farms, gilt wheat and lush greens. Armie forgets the crick in his neck and how his left leg is going numb, watches the countryside slip by and thinks he may be in trouble here. That he may never want to leave these rolling honeyed fields, the dense copses of poplars, the way the dawn has a glittering, misty quality that seems to hang like time itself, blanketing the countryside in a shroud that veils all modernity and harkens back to something ancient- pastoral and bucolic.

The feeling is cemented, half in dread, half in awe, entirely in resignation, as they enter the town, streets empty still of the morning traffic. They wind nimbly through lanes and cobbled alleys, passing by ancient stone and confectionary coloured stucco facades adorned with wrought iron balconies and, just like out of a storybook, lines of fluttering linens strung across narrow alleys and catching the morning breeze in an easy sway. Massimo brings them around the western edge of the town centre, veering south for a block or two until they come to a stop in front of a terracotta coloured three-story-building half-hidden behind a mass of creeping ivy.

Armie is shown in, up the winding staircase to the third floor where they enter a long corridor with 4 doors, two on each side. They pass the first door on the left, which Massimo nods at over his shoulder and says in a stage whisper, “ _Signore Chalamet_ ”, voice lowered with respect to the early hour. They stop at the left-side door at the far end of the hallway, Massimo pulling the keys from his pocket and unlocking the door before pressing them deftly into Armie’s palm, small, gnarled hand dwarfed in comparison.

The apartment behind the door is perfectly quaint, perfectly Italian. It’s smallish, in the European style, but it’s cozy and has an open, breezy feeling. It is immediately soothing, homey, and Armie knows that Luca has chosen this place specifically for him. For them. It calms his nerves, as effective as if Luca were beside him, murmuring in his mellifluous voice, saying exactly what Armie needs to hear just like he always does. 

Massimo leaves with a casual, “ _Ciao_ ”, closing the door behind him and leaving Armie alone. He goes to lock the door, instinctual, before realizing that this is probably the sort of place that one didn’t bother locking doors. He thinks suddenly of the young man a few walls away, decides to leave it open, to prove a point - to himself if no one else.

He toes off his sneakers and leaves his bags in the front room, investigates the small bathroom (complete with a bidet) and the corner kitchen, opens the large french doors in the living room and pokes his head out over the small balcony into the alley behind the building. The rooftop of the two-story-building next to them is lush with a garden of herbs, vegetables and latticed vines adorned with grapes and beans. Armie smiles and retreats, heading to the bedroom which is airy with a large bed (though he’s still sure his feet will dangle off the end), a wooden dresser and a matching desk under the double window, wooden shutters spread wide to welcome the breeze in. 

Allowing himself to fall gracelessly onto the bed, he lets out a long gusty sigh, content. As he watches the smooth lift and fall of the gauzy curtain hung across the window, moving placidly with the warm spring current, his last thought before slipping into sleep is simple, easy: _home_.

\---

The sun has moved enough when he wakes that he knows it must be afternoon without looking for his phone. When he does find it, he is bombarded by a throng of text messages and missed calls. He swipes on the only one that really matters right now. Luca has called, but figured he must be asleep, doesn’t want to disturb, is caught up with location issues for the morning but will see him in the afternoon before they all have dinner at his home, that Armie should explore, find something to eat, meet Timothée. 

Armie allows himself a shower, a change of clothes, before pocketing his mobile and a few bills and locking up. He pauses at the door down the hall and knocks, but there’s no answer. As he heads down the stairs, thumbing through his text messages, he passes a cleaning lady heading up with an armful of laundry. 

“Hello, do you know where Timothée is?” At her look of charmed bemusement he realizes his error. “Ah - _scusi. Spiacente. Dov’è… er… signore Chalamet_?” he tries, wincing apologetically.

“ _Ah, si si si. Lui è nella sua lezione_.” She mimes playing the piano. “ _Trova signore Guadagnino. Qui, _” she motions to his phone which he unlocks and hands to her. She clicks on the map app, tapping out an address for him before handing it back, already continuing up the stairs.__

He gets the gist. “ _Grazie,_ ” he calls up after her as he carries on. 

" _Prego._ ” 

\---

The address leads him only a few minutes walk away, further east through the southern part of the town centre, to a palazzo on the corner of a cobbled street. It is still beautiful in the way that slightly dilapidated well-appointed buildings are in Europe, all faded grandeur and nostalgia, from the slightly golden wash accentuated by the bleached dusty pink of old bricks, to the ornate stonework adornments decorating the leaded windows. The palazzo is presided over by a towering Lebanese cypress growing in the corner of the courtyard beyond the street facade. Armie hesitates at the front entrance, considers calling up to make sure he’s welcome and that Luca is home, but as he wanders into the arched tunnel he finds the wrought-iron gate slightly ajar and decides to take it as an invitation. 

He slips inside and into the courtyard, gardens slightly unkempt in a way that is charming rather than uncared for, dappled sunlight filtering through the branches of the cypress. A door to the left appears to be the entrance to the suites and he gives a perfunctory knock, not expecting an answer. There is one, however, door swinging promptly open on another middle aged housekeeper, arms laden with linens. 

“Oh! Um. _Buongiorno_.” 

“ _Ciao,_ ” she says, offhanded, hardly glancing at him as she maneuvers around him in the doorway. 

“ _Signore Guadagnino_?” he asks hurriedly. 

She jerks her chin down the hallway where a staircase climbs out of view. “ _Di sopra_.” 

He cranes his neck to peer down the hallway, and she is gone by the time he turns back, out of sight around the corner. “ _Grazie!_ ” he calls anyway. 

There are doors of different size and ornateness lining the hallway as Armie makes his way towards the stairs. The marbled floors and high ceilings catch the gentle susurration of his plimsolls. The silence of the palazzo is hushed, almost reverently so, until there is another sound. It grows clearer as he reaches the end of the hallway; a piano, clearly coming from behind the small, nondescript door closest to the stairs. The melody is beautiful, though it doesn’t quite flow perfectly, the player hesitating here and there before there is an obvious fumble, followed by a dissonant clang and an exasperated exclamation. A voice tuts in disapproval, faintly audible through the door. 

“ _Non, non, non, non, non. Non così._ Not like this. How can you play it _dolce_ when your wrist is stiff like corpse. Look, here. _Qui. Vedi? Lo senti?_ ” 

“Yeah- yes. _Si. Si, spiacente._ ” 

Armie knows who it is, knew it within seconds of hearing the music. His hand is on the doorknob before he has time to think about it, already turning it. 

The door swings wide into a studio dominated by a mahogany grand piano. Afternoon sunlight, dappled again through the cypress, spills in through the large windows spanning the length of the wall behind the piano bench. A man, dark hair thinned and silvering with late-middle-age, sits on a cushioned wooden chair next to the keyboard, blinking placidly up at Armie’s intrusion. 

The other denizen occupies the bench directly in front of the piano. He is at once exactly and nothing like what Armie expected. He might have come to life from a renaissance painting, though he is a little too slight, too angular. Armie’s first impression is of sharpness - the razored angle of his jawline, the sweep of his bridged nose under strong brows, the pointed contours of the limbs half-hidden in the loose, pooling fabric of his jeans and t-shirt. Second glance reveals a contrasting softness - the delicacy of the fine bones of his hands and wrists still poised above the keys, the high cheekbones, plushly bowed mouth, sleepy, dreamy green eyes, topped by a riotous dark mop of Botticelli curls. 

He’s not attractive, really, not at first, not in the usual way, like Armie is. But as he finally meets his gaze Armie thinks there is perhaps something compelling about him regardless, something sloe-eyed and almost fey. 

“Hey! I’m Armie! You must be Timothée, it’s so good to meet you! I heard piano and figured it must be you.” He sticks his hand out, extending it towards his costar. 

It takes Timothée a moment to recover, but the grin that creases his pale face is easy and friendly as he grasps Armie’s hand in a firm shake. 

“Yeah! It’s - I’m so glad you’re finally here! I-...” he hesitates, glancing to his tutor who raises his eyebrows and shrugs, clearly amused. “Shit, I’m so sorry, I’m just in the middle of a lesson.” 

“Of course, of course,” Armie placates, waving a hand and backing up into the open doorway. “I’m just going up to see Luca, I’ll leave you to it.” 

“I’ll find you- after?” Timothée says quickly, hopefully. “I won’t be much longer.” 

“Sure thing,” he assures, closing the door on himself. “Later,” he says with a wink, catching the responding grin, delighted, just before the door shuts. 

\---

“I’m glad you’re nice.” 

It is late, but Luca’s home is still buzzing with the conversation of his dinner guests, passionate and boisterous voices echoing from the loggia, guests full of good food, good wine, in good company. The apartment is stuffy - too many people and too warm a night. Armie has learned a few things tonight, about how Italians do dinner parties. He shifts, bringing his knee up and propping it on the cushion of the chair between them under the window sill. They have pushed the wooden shutters wide, lounging in mirrored posture on either side of the window frame, elbows resting on the sill. 

Armie takes a long drag on the joint between his fingers, exhales even longer, before passing it over to Timothée. “I’m glad you’re nice, too,” he replies. 

He accepts it, pinching it dexterously between his middle and ring finger before offering the cigarette between his thumb and pointer in trade. Armie plucks it delicately, cradling it between pointer and middle before letting his hand dangle loosely in the open air. In his other hand, he swirls his glass of Barolo and takes a sip. 

“So. Is it Tim-o- _thee_ ,” he says, emphasising the ‘th’, voice roughened from the smoke, the alcohol, the hour. “Or Tim-o- _tay_? ‘Cause I don’t think I can pull it off quite like Luca does. Can I call you Tim?” 

Timothée snorts, smiling ruefully around the joint held between his teeth. “Yeah, man, don’t hurt yourself. Tim. Timo. Timmy. Whatever.” 

Armie hums. “Timmy,” he tries, testing it on his tongue. Sharp eyes meet his before glancing away, head ducking and breathe coming on an amused gust. 

Armie offers the cigarette back to Timothée. Tim. Timo. Timmy. Whatever. He takes it, dragging once more on the joint and exhaling out of the corner of his mouth before Armie plucks it gingerly from his lips, mumbling something about joint etiquette on the east coast as Timmy laughs into his wine glass. 

There is a burst of ringing laughter from down the hall in the loggia, a woman’s voice rising above the din joined shortly by Luca’s in what is clearly a good humoured debate. The sound spills out their window into the street, echoing lightly and mingling with the other late night noises of a Friday on the cusp of summer. Armie glances over his shoulder towards the loggia, then back at Timmy, smirking in conspiratory mirth. The boy shakes his head, lips quirking with a slight roll of his eyes that says, _oh just you wait,_ and Armie has that feeling again, the one that tells him to slow down and live in this experience as fully as he can, because it will change him forever. It feels like butterflies and a warm bath all at once. It feels a lot like beginning to fall in love. 

He takes a last drag on the joint and stubs it out on the stones beneath the sill, lets the roach drop onto the cobbles below. “Let’s go.” 

Timmy says nothing, only downs the rest of his wine and flicks the stub of the cigarette out the window, watches it land with a spray of sparks below before he pushes himself away from the window with a swaying movement, languorous grace abetted by alcohol. 

\---

On the street below, after they say goodbye, Armie waits as Timmy pauses in the arched entrance to spark up another cigarette. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t joke about Timothée’s age or the chain smoking or about how it’s bad. Just accepts it with a brush of loose, clumsy fingers as they trade it back and forth, meandering back to their apartment building. 

It is very late. Or very early. 

“So. Can I call you _Armand_?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is so SO appreciated. Please leave a comment <3
> 
> My writing tumblr can be found [here](http://ibbywrites.tumblr.com). I'd love to chat- drop me a dm!
> 
> The film was so visually evocative so I knew from the start there would be graphics/moodboards to go along with this. However, part of the reason I stalled on it for ages was being unable to narrow things down into a single moodboard per chapter. So instead I made an aesthetic blog for this fic (though it can stand for CMBYN and/or Charmie in general).
> 
> You can find it [here](https://northern-italy-1983.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
